Camulod Chronicles Book 4 - The Saxon Shore

by Whyte, Jack

  "What about him? Ironhair's the danger. Varo is only dangerous as long as he is allowed to persist in this acquisitive lust he has for seizing land. I know exactly how to deal with that and I intend to see to it immediately. Apart from that, young Master Lucius merely provides Ironhair with a focus for the pretence of necessary, righteous outrage."

  "Aye, but—Oh damn, I'm being summoned."

  His eyes were fixed over my shoulder and I turned to where a messenger approached us from the hillside road, a one-armed veteran mounted on an elderly mule. He saw us notice him and drew rein within earshot.

  "Master Lucanus, you are needed in the sick bay."

  "Thank you, I will be there directly." The man turned and kicked his mount into its return journey, and as he watched the fellow go I saw Luke's features quicken and then set into a scowl.

  "What's wrong?" I asked him.

  He shook his head and his scowl changed into a tiny smile. "Passing thoughts," he said quietly. "When did you last wash your hands?"

  "What? This morning, why?"

  "Because I wash mine all the time, sometimes ten times in the course of a day. I know why I do it, too. We surgeons are a cleanly lot. But I had never thought till now of how I do it."

  I had heard his emphasis clearly, but his meaning had passed me by. I stood up, shaking my head at his non sequitur and sealing the nut bag with its drawstring. "Good for you, Luke. Before the monastic zealots appeared, the Romans used to say that cleanliness is next to Godliness."

  He ignored my comment, raising an arm to point to the departing messenger. "A one-armed man can't do it at all, Cay. He must rely on others to do it for him . . . to wash his hand."

  I froze, suddenly aware of what he meant, as he went on. "Emasculate young Varo, deprive him of his power, and you remove the focus for Ironhair's public motivation. He'll have only one hand to try and wash, and lack the means to do it."

  "By God, you're right, Luke, and I know exactly how to achieve that!"

  He looked at me and grinned. "I knew you would, as soon as I had pointed it out to you. Now I must go. Coming?"

  We barely spoke as we rode back up the road towards the fort. Luke's mind was on the work that lay ahead of him, and so was mine. I had six days to prepare for the adjourned meeting of the Council.

  V

  The appointed day arrived and I found myself, for the second time in a week, facing the assembled Plenary Council of Camulod, but much had changed in the intervening days. During that time I had convened a lesser council of my own, consisting of my great-aunt; Luke, who was not present at this day's gathering; Titus; Flavius; and a few of the senior councilors, including Mirren, all of whom had expressed concern, one way or another, over the way things had been heading recently. Acting with the concurrence of my small committee, I had busied myself over the preceding week, re-establishing my credentials—essentially my position as Legate Commander of Camulod, a position inherited (and earned, I liked to believe) from my father, Picus Britannicus, who had assumed the mantle from Publius Varrus, who had, in turn, taken over the position and its responsibilities from my grandfather, Caius Britannicus, progenitor of the Colony. Camulod had ever been primarily a military-based society, constructed for self-defence and survival in the face of chaos. Our Colonists were free men, joined together of their own free will, governed necessarily by the rules set forth by our Council and subject to its penalties, the most severe of which was banishment. In all matters of internal administration and civil government the Council's authority held sway. Military matters, however—and these embraced not only the defence, but also the protection of the common welfare of the Colony—assumed priority above all else, and there the Legate Commander held the ultimate authority. Much of my credibility came from being a Camulodian born and trained by the founders of the Colony, and from a long, active and successful career as a soldier of Camulod—a man, in short, who could achieve in very short order whatever had to be achieved.

  I had begun by visiting our wounded, freshly returned from Cornwall, and welcoming each man home, and I continued by holding a full General Inspection of the Garrison, the first such event in more than a year. I had then visited every holding in our lands, passing the time not only with the owners and managers of the estates, but with the populace, the ordinary Colonists, visiting many of them in their homes. I had shown my face in every smithy, cooperage and manufactory within our bourne, including the domain of Peter Ironhair, with whom I took care to spend a long time talking of his affairs and concerns.

  I had begun anew, this time entrusting the work to personnel carefully selected by my associates, the census of our livestock, abandoned so long before when Lot's Cornishmen first fell upon us, and I had set Titus and Flavius about a similar, exhaustive tally of our fighting strength. Both of these tasks were now complete, and I had the results to present to Council today. I had also ridden long and hard to dine every single night with the most powerful and long-established names among our Colonists, being careful to include among those a pleasant evening in the home of Lucius Varo. In the space of a week, in other words, I had become a politician vying for office.

  Now I sat in my proper place in Council, in the front row of the double ring of chairs that circled the hall. I felt more resplendent than I had for years, dressed in full, elaborate Roman parade regalia of polished black bull- hide breastplate, moulded to my torso over a rich, blindingly white tunic bordered with a Greek key design in pure black. Most of the matching accoutrements I wore from head to toe had been my father's and were of that quality which sets the truly ornate apart from the merely ostentatious. My buckles and adornments, from the rosettes of my chin strap to the mountings of my polished leather leggings, were of massive, solid silver. My great-aunt's seamstresses had completely renovated my huge war cloak, transferring the great, embroidered blazon of the rampant silver bear intact onto the back and shoulders of a brand-new black cloak, lined with soft, pure white wool. In the crook of my left elbow I held my finest black leather parade helmet, surmounted with my father's own massive, silver-mounted crest of alternating tufts of black and white horsehair.

  A bustle of close-pressed bodies announced the arrival of the Farmers, who moved in a block to the seats left vacant for their use on one side of the circle. Lucius Varo and his closest adviser Bonno—the two were evidently seldom seen apart—sat in the front row, approximately centred among their little group. A short time later, the Artisans entered and made their way to the seats they had marked as theirs. They seated themselves, leaving two central chairs, also in the front rank, ostentatiously empty. Peter Ironhair and Rhenus sauntered in a few moments later and sat down, both of them nodding casually to me in greeting.

  I knew that my finery had occasioned much comment among the gathering, but no one, so far, had given me any indication that they considered me too formally dressed. I kept my eyes fixed on middle space and waited for Mirren to call the assembly to order. He did, eventually, and the business of the Council began.

  As I had expected, there was nothing of moment to be discussed that day. There had been a long-standing dispute over the borders of parts of Varo's lands, and whether or not they infringed upon the land granted some years earlier to one of Ironhair's adherents. Both clique leaders, however, had visited Mirren privately since my return, requesting that he defer the discussion and judgment scheduled for this day's proceedings. I was quite content to have it thus. The major matter for this assembly to absorb and discuss today lay within no one's agenda but my own, which I had drawn up carefully with Mirren. I paid little attention to the maundering discussions of the few routine matters that remained before the Council, and they were soon dealt with. I was concentrating so intently, in fact, upon the course that lay before me, that I lost track completely of what was happening, so that Mirren's introduction of me took me unawares.

  ". . . the return of Caius Merlyn Britannicus to this Council," he was saying when my mind snapped back to where I was. "Last week, he
appeared here in full health for the first time in several years, but appeared before us only as a messenger, bearing the tidings of his cousin's death. Today, however, he is here in a different, a double capacity: as one of us, in Council, taking his place among us as an equal, and as Legate Commander of the Forces of Camulod, the rank accorded him by his own father, the Legate Picus Britannicus, in recognition of his great abilities, and a title, incidentally, that has been assumed by no other since. In both capacities he will address us now, and it is with pleasure I invite you to break the custom of this gathering and welcome him with your applause after so long and regrettable an absence. Caius Merlyn Britannicus." He waved his arm, inviting me to stand and speak, and I arose to a great surge of applause and walked forward to the centre of the circle, where I turned fully around, accepting and acknowledging their plaudits. Varo and Ironhair stamped and clapped as loud as any, but where Varo's smile seemed genuine, Ironhair's face was expressionless. As the noise died down I held up my hand, palm forward.

  "Thank you, my friends. I cannot adequately tell you how glad I am to be back here in the hall, in full possession of my faculties once more. I can tell you, however, that I have sworn an oath to develop, based upon my past experiences, a lifelong habit henceforth of keeping my head well clear of swinging iron flails." That brought a round of laughter, even from the Women's Council, and as it died away I spoke again.

  "These are warlike times, and we have suffered grievously by that, so I think it is fitting that the Soldier report to you today before the Councilor." I glanced around the circle and then withdrew a folded scroll of papyrus from the bowl of the helmet tucked beneath my left arm. "Let me begin with a summation of our military strengths and weaknesses." I pulled open the scroll and glanced down at it for effect, although I knew the numbers perfectly. "A careful accounting within the past four days has shown that we have a total strength at our command of eighteen hundred and forty trained fighting men fit to do battle today, should the need arise. Some eight hundred and fifty of these are cavalry troopers, the remaining thousand or so are infantry and garrison troops, stationed within the fort itself and in the camps throughout the Colony. A further seven hundred and twenty-eight men are currently recovering from wounds in and around the fort itself, and of that number approximately five hundred, mainly cavalry, should be fit to return to duty within the next two or three months. Some will take longer to regain their strength. Others never will." I looked around me again, and then lowered my head to the scroll once more. No sound marred the stillness of the hall.

  "As to livestock: A similar tally tells us that we have fifteen hundred cavalry mounts." Someone hissed in surprise, and a murmur of astonishment rose and quickly fell. I continued speaking. "I have no need to tell you how important those mounts are. Many of them are geldings and infertile or unbred mares, but we have more than eighty stud stallions. We also have a wealth of brood mares, fillies, work horses and pack animals, twelve hundred in all, throughout our lands. In addition, we have a large number of mules, three hundred and eighty of them, and several dozen asses. Of cattle, we have eighteen hundred head in eleven separate herds. Seven hundred of those are milch cows; a full five hundred are heifers, born, thanks only to Fortune, since no one planned it thus, over the past three years and still unbred. The rest are oxen: bullocks kept for food, labour and hides, except for twenty prime bulls. Of other cattle, we have . . . more than six hundred swine, and ducks, geese and hens too numerous to count." I paused, looking up again. "Lest any misunderstand, those numbers leave us richer than any of us had thought to be, because our crops have suffered badly these past few years, and our granaries are poorly stocked. Our prospects, however, for this year at least, are good, even should our crops fail—a disaster that should not occur, all things continuing as they are. We could sustain ourselves on meat alone, eked out by rationed grain, through the severest winter, should the need arise. Again, please God, it will not." There was no stopping the hum of speculation I had stirred up this time. The thought of slaughtering enough animals to feed the entire Colony throughout a whole winter was an amazing one. I waited, and when the time was right I stopped them again.

  "I have no doubt that all of you are wondering how we could amass such wealth and not be aware of it. How could it remain hidden? Well, the answer lies in the size and variety of our estates. This Colony we call Camulod embraces no less than fourteen great villa estates today, each of them self- sustaining, in the main. In terms of area, our lands would extend more than twelve miles, perhaps fifteen, in both length and breadth, were they so arranged. Of course, they are not, and few among us have ever visited each estate within the Colony. Has anyone?" No one raised a hand. "I have," I said. "But only in the past week have I set out methodically to do so.

  "So, we are wealthy, in terms of livestock at least, almost beyond our dreams, and we have reasonable fighting strength. But before you declare a holiday, my friends, consider this." I made them wait as I turned in a full circle once more, eyeing them all. "Before Lot's pestilence, before his treachery, before the wars he thrust upon us, our cavalry mounts numbered more than five thousand." I allowed that to sink home, before reiterating it with measured emphasis. "Five thousand. More than three thousand of those are gone now, and with many of them went their riders. . . In the past five years, we have lost more than two thousand men, killed in the wars. God knows how many of our allies in Uther's kingdom have gone down to death in addition to those. And Uther's people are not farmers. They will be feeling the pain of lost men far more than we."

  These numbers, thus baldly stated, created the effect I had hoped for, and I forged on, seizing the moment. "So our apparent strength, as you may see plainly now if you look, is, in effect, a measure of our weakness. But it is a weakness we can readily remedy, by taking swift, sure steps to stamp it out!"

  How? I could see the question written plainly on their faces as they gazed at me, awaiting my guidance, sensing salvation in my confidence.

  "We have never lacked prospective Colonists—our biggest problem in the past, in peaceful times, has been in controlling the influx of people seeking safety within our lands; people whose numbers, carelessly controlled, would quickly swamp our ability to provide the very things they seek: safety and security from hunger. That profusion of potential immigrants has provided us in the past with as many willing soldiers as we wished to hire and train. It will do so again today. I seek your formal approval in the dispatching of five teams of recruiters, veteran soldiers all, to raise an intake of at least another thousand replacements for the soldiers we have lost. We have the ability to feed and train such numbers, and the personnel to turn them into Camulodian troopers. More important than either of those, however, is the fact that, thanks to the death of the upstart Cornish king, as he styled himself, we have the time available to train them."

  Their approval was instantaneous, a shouted chorus of assent.

  "Thank you for that. The recruiting parties are prepared and will go out today." I folded up my scroll and stuffed it back inside the bowl of my helmet, which I then placed carefully on the floor by my feet, giving the three recording clerks against the wall—another innovation since my days of regular attendance here—time to write down the approval I had gained.

  "Now," I resumed, changing the subject and arriving at my real agenda for the day. "The topic I will put before you next calls on both of the capacities in which I serve here. I bring it forward both from the viewpoint of our strength, which I am sworn to preserve and foster, and from the perspective of a councillor concerned with husbanding and expanding our resources." A brief pause produced only a silence of anticipation.

  "I spoke earlier of the extent and disposition of our lands . . . I have concerns in that regard which I must place before you, and they have to do with balance, with moderation, with the distribution of our resources, and with weaknesses I have perceived within this week. As you all know, I have moved widely among you in recent days, and have had discus
sions with almost all of you on the conditions under which each one of you must do what Camulod and its people require of you." I looked from face to face, disliking the flattery inherent in the next words I would utter. "You are all people of intellect and probity. That's why you sit in this Council. Each of you knows the practical truth behind the old saying that only a fool carries all of his eggs in one basket, or places all of his precious glassware upon one shelf. . .

  "And yet, in my travels about our lands, I have perceived—and I mean very clearly perceived—such an imbalance." They were listening closely. "Our livestock is numerous and healthy, but it has been reduced by more than two thousand horses. I have already dealt with that, but the lands allocated for those vanished horses have not decreased. We have vast areas of uncultivated grasslands at our disposal . . . going to waste after the years of effort that were spent winning them from the forest. Of all our fourteen villa estates, only one is dedicated completely to the raising of crops. Only one . . . the Villa Varo. It is well run, healthy and prosperous, and we all rely on it completely and quite literally for our daily bread, but God forbid we should ever be taken unawares by an incursion of hostile forces on the Varo lands! Were that to happen, we could, at one stroke, lose all our crops, or the vast part of them. That, my friends, constitutes eggs in one basket on a frightening scale . . ."

  This time I made no effort to restrain the tide of comment that swept around the hall, and to avoid the temptation of looking towards Lucius Varo and his group, who huddled tensely, whispering among themselves. I allowed my gaze to drift with apparent aimlessness around the room until it touched on the Ironhair faction. They were agog, straining their necks to watch Varo's people. Only Ironhair himself sat aloof, his face reflecting grave thoughts as he evidently wondered where this was going. Eventually, the tide of comments died down to a murmur, at which point Mirren, with his entitlement as president, rose to his feet. Silence fell again as he spoke.